


Mutual Affection

by Arcwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Dialogue, F/M, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock's Mind Palace, The Blind Banker Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 00:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12693705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin
Summary: What is a friend?A person with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically one exclusive of sexual or family relations.Do we have mutual affection? Unclear. Do I feel affection for him? As noted earlier, I feel something. Not enough data to determine if that could be considered affection. Interesting.Note: It's entirely possible/likely that the rating will increase as this fic unfolds.1/19/19: this is incomplete but at this point I may or may not return to it. For those who were following it, apologies! My interest fizzled out.





	1. I Am Not An Admirer. Obviously.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-Jawn <3<3<3 As always!

Sebastian Wilkes is an arsehole. A bloody wanker. A prat. A singularly pathetic excuse for a man. God I hate him. Why did I bother answering his beck and call? He emails me and I just _had_ to come running, eager to please.

Eager to show off.

(Show off? He’s not worth showing off for, is he?)

No. Not worth showing off for at all.

I _was_ eager though. Wanted to prove to him that _some_ people find me useful. Find my ‘little trick’ **interesting**.

Prove to him?

Me?

....John?

Ah, John. He came along too, of course. I was glad for that.

(Was I?)

Of course I was. I feel...something. Around him. He...doesn’t mind me. My quirks, my oddities...the things that annoy others. He accepts me, I think. So far, anyway. I wanted Sebastian to see that. To see John--loyal, accepting John--in my life, going with me places.

I dared to introduce him as my friend, even. Sebastian was shocked. A friend? _Me!?_

Yes, Sebastian. I, _the freak_ , have a friend. Well, I thought I did--and then John corrected me.

Colleague.

Sigh.

Why did he do that?

Hmm. I _have_ always referred to him that way, as my colleague.

Are we friends? I suppose I don’t know. Not really my area.

What is a friend? _A person with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically one exclusive of sexual or family relations._ Do we have mutual affection? Unclear. Do I feel affection for him? As noted earlier, I feel something. Not enough data to determine if that could be considered affection. Interesting.

What about John? Does he have affection for me? I know he admires me. ‘Amazing!’ ‘Extraordinary!’ He describes what I do in terms consistent with admiration. At the very least, consistent with some form of awe. Is he my admirer? Yes, technically, I suppose he is. He admires me. From a purely literal perspective, of course. There is another definition, a social one. _Admirer_ . The secret kind, the pining kind. The kind which is incapable of making rational decisions due to the fog of sentiment. _Distasteful._

John is not _that_ kind of admirer.

**Obviously.**

In a way, I admire John too, I think. He’s a challenging man to understand. I can see the obvious parts of him, the parts that everyone sees if they actually try. Yet he is so full of contradictions. Doctor: do no harm. Soldier: a fighter, a killer. He killed a man to save my life the second day he knew me. Slow to trust, yet attached himself to me almost immediately. Keeps to himself--a loner. Yet practically begs to be included in whatever I’m doing. Came home from the war seeking peace and quiet, normality. Except that he doesn’t want any of those things at all. Curious. Interesting. _Admirable_.

I am not an _admirer_ though. Preposterous thought. I don’t see people that way. I don’t have room for such _sentiment_ in my life. For such... _affection_. Logically, it would follow, then, that I don’t have room for friends.

I’m _busy_.

_**Always.** _

John doesn’t seem to mind. He knows I’m busy. He exists within it. Never tries to resist it or fight it. He just accepts it. Accepts me as the mad genius who doesn’t have time for anything, especially not relationships. Perhaps it’s disarming for him, knowing he doesn’t even need to try. I’ve accepted him as part of my system, part of my world. Maybe this is why he stays. Why he shows me the other side, the hidden side of who he is. The _honest_ side.

Is that a sign of affection? Vulnerability? Does he trust me not to use these things against him? Why would he? I exploit people regularly for my own gains. He’s watched me do it, even. Why would he assume I wouldn’t do it to him?

(I **wouldn’t** do it to him.)

Wouldn’t I?

(I don’t think so.)

Why not?

(No clue.)

He wondered, when we were with Sebastian, why I lied and said I had been talking with his secretary. He knew why, though. He knew I was trying to be a prick. Sebastian deserved it. John knew it. He smiled. He _knew_. Sometimes I think he sees more, knows more, than he lets on. He is actually quite clever, in a different way than I am. I can see the tiny details, the evidence that leads to the ignored parts of the world, and he catches everything else. He _understands_ people--truly understands them. Where I struggle to connect to others, he can piece the puzzle together and fit himself in it seamlessly. I suppose I admire that about him too.

(I wish he thought of me as a friend.)

Do I? I think I do. Why? What benefit would I gain from a relationship in that way? Unclear. If anything, it might compromise me. Might cloud my judgment. I would be moved by sentiment to make potentially irrational decisions. Yet I feel a pull from him. Why do I feel so compelled to consider our...arrangement...and question deepening it to include emotions? Affection? Just thinking about those words makes me impulsively recoil.

(I’m lonely.)

Am I? I’ve never been lonely in my life.

(I’ve always been lonely.)

I’m busy. I don’t have time to feel lonely. I have my thoughts, my mind palace. Isn’t that enough?

(No.)

This is getting dangerous. My heart is racing. Can’t keep thinking about this. Put it away. Too much. Too close. Too intense. No, I’m fine. **Fine**.

Colleagues. Flatmates. That’s enough. It’s enough.

(Is it?)

Deep breath. Calm down. Stop it. **STOP IT!**  It’s enough. I’m fine. Just **STOP IT**.

Case. The case at the bank. Should focus on the case at the bank. John mentioned something about needing money, anyway. Not that I want to take Sebastian’s money, _obviously_. John took the check. I knew he would. Bills-- _dull_. He can handle that for us. I’ll handle the case.

Well…

 _We’ll_ handle the case. He’s proven himself useful on cases. It’s handy, having a companion.

(Makes me feel less alone.)

Sigh. What is wrong with me today? I have a delightfully interesting puzzle to solve and I’m stuck in a thought loop about loneliness? Maybe I’m getting ill. Should mention it to John. Wait--no. Can’t. This...no. I’ll just stop it myself. Focus on the case. That’s right. The case.

I can feel the cab pulling to a stop. We’ve arrived at the banker’s flat--Edward Van Coon. The intended recipient of the cryptic message that Sebastian called me about. John’s been silent on the ride over, looking out the window. What’s he been thinking about? My history with Sebastian? The case? Perhaps just enjoying the scenery. Not everybody dives into contemplation the way I do when they are silent.

Must be nice.

We get out, pay, and head over to the building. My eyes rove over the area--observing, cataloging. This Van Coon--he must do well for himself. A prime location, expensive. Wealthier part of London. Large building, well kept. Excellent security. Must do _very_ well for himself.

Ring the buzzer. No answer. He works at night, clearly he would be home during the day. He trades with Hong Kong, keeps odd hours. Perhaps he’s sleeping? Ring it again. Wait. Still no answer.

John looks at me, hands shoved in his pockets. He’s cold. Should have worn gloves. He probably didn’t realize we would be jumping into investigation so quickly. Then again, I didn’t tell him what we were doing. (Inconsiderate?)

“So what do we do now? Sit here and wait for him to come back?” he asks. He’s _here_ , John. Of course he’s here. Where else would he be? He _has_ to be here. He was at work last night, late. Must have seen the message. What do people do when they are unsure, confused? They retreat. They pull back to their comfort zones. **He’s here**. He just isn’t answering. Why? Need to get inside. Need to get into his flat. It will be clear once I get in there.

Ah--a way in. Perfect. “Just moved in,” I reply.

John’s eyebrows furrow, confused at my statement. “What?”

I point. “Floor above, new label.” Wintle, it says. Handwritten. Obviously new.

“Could have just replaced it,” John suggests. Even though he’s regularly wrong, I appreciate that he always has an alternative point of view to provide. Helps me solidify my own deductions.

Buzz the new renter. “No one ever does that,” I respond. They don’t. He knows it. Doesn’t argue. Never seems to argue with me when he knows I’m right (almost always). I like that. I like that he just accepts my ability to be right, even if it exposes something that makes him uncomfortable or pushes a boundary. He lets me be right.

I once considered Sebastian my friend, and he hated it when I was right. Teased me for it. Told me to piss off. Told me I was a freak, annoying, infuriating sometimes. Is that what friends do?

No, I suppose they don’t. _Mutual affection_. Insults are not typically considered affection. Sebastian was not-- _is not_ \--my friend. Hm.

“Hello?” a female voice answers.

Perfect. “Hi, um, I live in the flat just below you. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No, well, uh, I’ve just moved in.” Of course you have. Couldn’t have been more apparent.

Time to accomplish my goal. “Actually, I’ve just locked my keys in my flat…”

“You want me to buzz you in?” she asks. Knew she would.

“Yeah, and can I use your balcony?”

“What?”

Just let us in, would you? Ah, yes! I hear the door unlock. John looks at me, eyebrows raised and the hint of a smile on his lips. He’s...impressed? Surprised? Almost would have expected him to be put off by my obvious deception. Doesn’t seem that way, though. Interesting. Such an honest man, yet accepts the fact that I lie and manipulate to acquire the data I need to solve cases. Encourages it, even, it seems--is impressed by my ability to use it to my advantage.

I’m surprised it doesn’t make him more suspicious of me.

(I like that he trusts me enough for it.)

Do I? Shake my head. _Stop it_. I’m going back to that loop again. Need to **focus** . The case. Need to see why Van Coon didn’t answer when he’s so clearly in his flat. _I’m busy_.

**Busy.**

_**Always.** _

Follow me, John. You know I’m busy. _We’re_ busy. Let’s go be busy together.


	2. Let the Adults Handle This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe this absurdity, John? You heard him-- _Detective Inspector._

Van Coon is dead. Can’t say I’m surprised. Knew he was home, and being dead is a perfectly valid reason for not answering when we buzzed. New Scotland Yard’s just arrived and is busy gathering evidence, sweeping the crime scene (and missing nearly all of the most important details, assuredly.)

Talking aloud really does help me think. Glad John is here.

What’s this? Something...something is stuck in Van Coon’s mouth? Curious...oh! Oh, he was being threatened, obviously. This is a message, a marker. Looks like an origami flower made out of black paper? Asian in origin, most likely. Not definite, but balance of probability--

A man. Who is this man? Walks with purpose. Heard him giving direction as he came down the hall. Authority, then. Too young to be much more than a sergeant, though. Lestrade must be delayed, sent this lackey on his behalf. _Irritating_. Hate meeting new people. It always starts off so falsely pleasant until they start to understand _what_ I am and get annoyed. Would much rather skip past the charade of socially required niceties--more efficient that way.

Oh well. At least it’s not Donovan. Her vendetta against me takes more effort than I care to waste.

“Ah, sergeant. We haven’t met,” I state, walking towards him and extending my hand. (That’s what people do, isn’t it? Shake hands when they make acquaintances? Hateful.)

He’s refusing to take it. Why? What? Standing with his hands on his hips, looking... _defiant_.

Really?

“Yeah, I know who you are. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t tamper with any of the evidence.”

Excuse me? Is this one **related** to Anderson somehow? A brother, perhaps? Oh, **GOD** , how loathsome. Does my reputation precede me now? Whatever they say about me at New Scotland Yard is clearly tinted by envy of my intellect and ability. Not my fault they are all so incapable of basic detective work. _Honestly_.

He’s staring at me, daring me to challenge him. Not worth my time. He’s made up his mind about me prior to even seeing me. Ridiculous. Enemies, then. Another to add to the list. Well, sergeant, take your precious evidence. I’m done with it anyway. I _know_ what I need to do now. What I’m looking for.

“I phoned Lestrade, is he on his way?” No time for you, infant. Let the adults handle this.

“He’s busy. I’m in charge…”

Are you now?

“...and it’s not sergeant, it’s Detective Inspector. Dimmock.”

…

What? No, surely not. Really? They must be desperate, promoting inexperienced twats so easily. Sigh--this is going to complicate matters. Glance over at John, who is standing by Van Coon. Can you believe this absurdity, John? You heard him-- _Detective Inspector_. John shrugs back at me, clearly understanding my unspoken confusion and irritation, yet unable to assist. **Frustrating.**

As we follow the _reported_ Detective Inspector out of Van Coon’s bedroom, he solidifies his role as an _idiot_. A suicide? Ooh, you’ve got to be joking. Must be blind. He has _got_ to be blind! A suicide!?

Oh.

No.

He’s serious.

Fight back the urge to groan aloud. Well, at least now I get to prove him wrong.

(And show off a bit.)

Show off? For whom? Certainly not for this dimwitted git.

(John.)

Why would I want to show off for John?

(Because I love the praise.)

I don’t need outside validation of my brilliance. _Pathetic_.

(Still feels good to receive it.)

Unnecessary. _Irrelevant_. **Stop it.**

Oh, now John’s agreeing with him? _Fantastic_. Don’t bother hiding my massive eyeroll at them both. John, you _know_ he’s wrong, don’t you? You’ve seen what I have, you’ve noticed the tells. Couldn’t possibly be a suicide, not with the bullet wound in that location. Come on, I **_know_ ** you’ve seen it!

Ugh, this is getting out of hand. Time to fix it. “ _Wrong_. One possible explanation of some of the facts. You’ve got a solution that you like but you’re choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn’t comply with it,” I correct venomously, glaring at Dimmock.

Allow me to show you _why_ your colleagues hate me so much.

I’m flying through the evidence supporting my conclusion--Van Coon was murdered, clearly. Left handed people rarely shoot themselves in the right side of the their heads. Dimmock is getting increasingly uncomfortable, voice cracking as he comments and questions--all semblance of authority vanishing as I crush him into the ground.

**I am right.**

**_Always_** **.**

**Do not cross me** **.**

John senses my rage. I feel the familiar flood of norepinephrine as my deductions spew out of me, filling the room and overtaking everyone in it. He’s attempting to slow me down, put a damper on my irritation and mania. He knows what happens when I begin to lose control like this. My brain spirals and races, thoughts pinging through my neurons faster and faster. My carefully controlled filter disintegrates--I’m no longer capable of reining in the words that exit my mouth.

This is typically the time I’m in the most danger.

He knows it. He feels it. His fists are clenched at his sides, shoulders squaring. Preparing.

Preparing to do what? To stop me?

(No...no. Preparing to _defend_ me. He knows what usually happens next. He’s ready to fight for me.)

Really? Is he?

(He is.)

Why? Doesn’t make any sense.

(Doesn’t it?)

I look over at him. Dimmock is sputtering some nonsense, trying to refute me and failing miserably. John catches my gaze, eyes hard, jaw working. He’s warning me. Telling me to calm down. His eyebrows knit together briefly. I can hear his thoughts through his expression as if he’d said them aloud.

_‘Don’t do this. Not worth it.’_

_‘But I’m right,’_ I nonverbally communicate back.

 _‘I know,’_ he replies through a curt nod and pursed lips. _‘But calm down.’_

I concede with a sigh.

Of course, he’s right.

Okay, John. We’d better leave then. Further conversation here will definitely infuriate me more and lead to an undesirable outcome, clearly. I grab my gloves, pulling them on while continuing to argue with Dimmock. He’s starting to retreat, though. I can feel it. Body language has changed entirely from aggressive to passively disbelieving my abilities and my confidence in them.

“But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?” he asks incredulously.

Ah, I’ve won. So much easier once they admit defeat and see things my way. Another glance at John. He’s struggling to contain a smirk of amusement. I fight the urge to smile at him, and turn back towards Dimmock.

“Good,” I murmur. “You’re finally asking the _right_ questions.”

Done here. Thinking to do, and I can’t possibly get it accomplished here--too many distractions. Too many idiots.

Good--John’s following me. I can hear his quick, even stride as he catches up.

“That was a close one,” he comments quietly.

Narrow my eyes, keep walking. Need to go inform Sebastian.

“You know, you really ought to watch it with them. Could get us into trouble one day,” he chides gently.

“Them?”

“The police,” he clarifies.

Oh. Behave myself? _Dull_.

“Didn’t do anything wrong. Merely corrected their stupidity. How would _that_ get me into trouble?”

“Us, Sherlock. It could get _us_ into trouble.”

Us.

Us?

_What?_

“But if _I’m_ the one acting inappropriately, how would it affect _you_?” I ask, heart rate speeding up. What? What is this? Why am I--

He shakes his head, sighs. “Because...well, because I’m there with you, and...I’d...be involved.”

Would you? Hm. Interesting.

_Us._

_Involved._

I--

Ah, a taxi. Good. Need (a distraction?)...no, need to go see Sebastian. Need to investigate further. Need to think.

About the case.

_Obviously._

(Not about John?)

 **No.** About the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LIAR.


End file.
